A Walk from London to John O'Groat's eBook

above, the “ministering angel of God’s
love let her body remain with him as a pledge until
his own spirit was called to join hers in the joint
mansion of their eternal rest. On the very day
that her body was carried to its long home, his own
unloosed, to its upward flight, the soul that had
made it shine for half a century like a temple erected
to the Divine Glory. The years allotted to him
on earth were even to a day. Just sixty-six
were measured off to him, and then “the wheel
ceased to turn at the cistern,” and he died on
his birthday. An affecting coincidence also
marked the departure of his beloved wife. She
left on the birthday of her eldest son, who had intended
to make the anniversary the dating-day of domestic
happiness, by choosing it for his marriage.

A few facts will suffice for the history of the closing
scene. About the middle of October, 1862, Mrs.
Webb, whose health seemed failing, went to visit her
brother, Henry Marshall, Esq., residing in Cambridge.
Here she suddenly became much worse, and the prospect
of her recovery more and more doubtful. Mr. Webb
was with her immediately on the first unfavorable
turn of her illness, together with other members of
the family. When he realised her danger, and
the hope of her surviving broke down within him, his
physical constitution succumbed under the impending
blow, and two days before her death, he was prostrated
by a nervous fever, from which he never rallied, but
died on the 10th of November. Although the great
visitation was too heavy for his flesh and blood to
bear, his spirit was strengthened to drink this last
cup of earthly trial with beautiful serenity and submission.
It was strong enough to make his quivering lips to
say, in distinct and audible utterance, and his closing
eyes to pledge the truth and depth of the sentiment,
“Thy will be done!” One who stood over
him in these last moments says, that, when assured
of his own danger, his countenance only seemed to
take on a light of greater happiness. He was
conscious up to within a few minutes of his death,
and, though unable to speak articulately, responded
by expressions of his countenance to the words and
looks of affection addressed to him by the dear ones
surrounding his bed. One of them read to him
a favorite hymn, beginning with “Cling to the
Comforter!” When she ceased, he signed to her
to repeat it; and, while the words were still on her
lips, the Comforter came at his call, and bore his
waiting spirit away to the heavenly companionship
for which it longed. As it left the stilled
temple of its earthly habitation, it shed upon the
delicately-carved lines of its marble door and closed
windows a sweet gleam of the morning twilight of its
own happy immortality.